He'd Remember
by Don'tEvenHaveAGun
Summary: And as she held the dagger above his head, she remembered those two men that infested the very possibility of hope to live. (Short series)
1. Chapter 1

**A short fiction that consists of Memories of two men, and a woman.**

**Cicero's Memory**

He remembered the armor, but not her face. He remembered the ebony hue and slender frame of a long-legged Nord Woman. He remembered the trail and the great embrace of jagged mountain that surrounded the land. Also the tiny farm that perked up from on top of the hill.

His memory spun its first web, a tiny thread that related and wove with the rest. It was his wagon, his blasted wagon. The wheel from one side of the wagon couldn't handle the weight of his Holy Matron, nor the cargo that he brought along with most of his life. He could even say he remembered the sick splinter snapping, and how he almost fell off his perched place on the damned wagon. It was when everything went top-heavy on him. He almost panicked, he recalled when he felt the huge crate box that contained his mother slide and jolt to the sudden movement of everything falling to the left. Yet her grace never touched the undeserving soil.

He begged and pleaded for hours with the farmer that owned the farm on top of the hill. The farmer refused and even began his ranting and denying that the poor jester offered. He didn't even consider the poor old Fool's ways. Then there was the guard that would loom around the Jesters' cart, visually taking and nodding side notes as the guards eyes would linger over the Jester and then towards his large crate. This did not settle **Cicero's** arousing insanity.

His mind fancied such a force, something so voluptuous. It was almost abhuman to have such thoughts. He would replay different thoughts, and the hint of an evil glint would slide across his dried, paled lips. It was a pleasure, or a delicious satisfaction to even touch the hilt of his ebony dagger. How the metallic sound came slowly out and how inviting another persons' color would drape upon it. Russet had to be the most artistic of all the colors.

If he could just force the farmer to help him, slit the guards throat, kill the farmer's wife in front of him. Well, it sounded more to him of a romantic ballad than murder. Even with theses thoughts, he couldn't do it. Possibly if he was alone, without the company of mother. He was risking her, he couldn't do that. So he waited, slumping against the side of the makeshift wagon, his arms crossed.

Cicero would kick himself and wished he was more visual to the world around him; for if he was more abstract to the surroundings he would have noticed a term of events simply walking down the trail that lead to him.

Oh yes, he dreamed of this memory fondly. He remembered so vividly. How a strange Nord woman bent over the remains of his wagon wheel: that still clung to the mud and muck that caused the episode and delayed his plans. Daytime light seem to balance off her ebony colored armor, and when she turned to face him he could notice the extra detail about her chest. It was a sprawled out raven bird, the wingspans would touch from shoulder to shoulder; it looked to be carved into the leather. Her face was hidden by the matching colored mask, her hair unseen from the eyes of other. The only thing he could see that was to the color of flesh was her fingertips that poked out from her gloves. A pale-toned woman, a long-legged Nord woman.

The woman in ebony leather was not alone though. As she bent over the wagon wheel, picking up the splinters and whatever she could grab, there was a man behind her. A shrewd by appearance sort of man. He shared the same race as Cicero, an Imperial. Even if he shared the blood of Imperial he was taller than the woman in ebony by possibly an inch, or half an inch. He wore modest mage robes, honey colored and slightly stained from possible journey, some spots darker than others. The mans' hair was a dark brown, long and possibly unruly if it wasn't already pulled back in a tight tail. His cheek bones were sunken in, his expression ever so cocky even if he wasn't trying. Though with such traits the Imperial mage had a vocabulary to match an Imperial with political taste. "Stuck?" The Imperial man was the first to offer Cicero help.

Cicero would clap his hands together, which would only cause the man to step back from whatever space he had left. "Cicero does need help you see. My wheel! It's broken. But you see Cicero can not leave." The Imperial mage would give the Nord woman a quick glance as she drew close with the mentions of a damned wheel in hand.

"Aye." She spoke smoothly, and tumbled like a waterfall. Though her voice was muffled behind the leather mask that cared to cover her jaw. Cicero would pry to the woman's' face closer to only be matched with a pair of gray questing nature. "We can tell.."

"Well, why haven't you asked the farm from on top of the hill? I'm pretty sure they would help. Honestly?" The Imperial man would add his two septiums worth into the conflict. Strangely the habit of this man cutting off the woman drew an unwanted hatred, something morbid festered in his mind. A mind that him and the man shared, then there was a laugh. A ringing laugh that would always calm Cicero.

"Well? I've tried don't you see? Cicero would have had mother in a new place already if that farmer would help poor Cicero."

The Nord woman would glance over towards the Imperial mage, her head nodding. "We will help you of course."

And they did, with no exchange of names. His memory would end and hoped in some sick way he would be able to see the Nord woman again and not the Imperial man who tagged along. It was the man in his head that told him something was off, even if it was just a brief encounter.

**Marcurio's Memory**

Marcurio remembered meeting such a foe, something odd and strange. A foe? Oh, he has had his dealings with such a particular that it has involved several punches and intoxication of rabble when this certain woman would rally the rest of the bar to cheer her on.

A meek woman? Clearly not. If he searched far enough into the dawning mind weaves of memory, he would remember ear-splitting yells from across the bar, hardy taps of mugs clambering all at once, bellowed laughs with several falling to the floor. Sadly, he has done business with said Nord woman.

Persival would tower over the rest as she took practice on the bars' tables. Her feet planted upon the table, holding a mug into the air, her smile thick in chime. Her glare falling upon Marcurios' while the rest drew their curiosity to hers. Of course he would always smile back at her, holding up his own cup to toast her silently.

Then he would remember after the rabble parties and drunk brawls, Persival would disappear; Many days' of a time. The bar would grow quiet, letting drunken depression set in without the tall blonde. There would be bicker of religion from the priest of Mara, or Keerava yelling at Talen-Jei for not fixing the beds properly; The lizard would only smile and comply most of the time. It was only the time Persival would arrive in swing to gather the rest, along with other followers that spread all across Skyrim.

Except, there was one memory that bothered Marcurio the best. He hardly noticed Persival step into the bar one night. A taunting night of when Keerava retired for the night, leaving Talen in charge of counter. A sort of night of rain pelting the side of the window pane glass, gathering along with the dirt that dripped from leaked cracks.

Persival would lean against the counter, her hand propped lazily underneath her jaw while the other gripped the body of an ale neck. Her lips would barely ghost over the rim of the bottle, and a light sigh would trigger a hollowed melody. Marcurio would glance over several times, his arms crossed with his eyes trailing down the almost exposed back of a set of new armor. Troubling, almost. Persival would mostly stagger over just to sit with him on his daunting bench. She would slur, and bubble over stories she has lived, spilling all of it on Marcurio. Fairly for tonight, she has done no such thing.

Marcurio stood up from his bench, finding the empty stool that was next to Persivals'. She'd look over towards the Imperial, and she would lightly smile and nod off to him. He return her gesture with a faintly sigh, and a low off-balanced chuckle. "Strange, wouldn't you say?"

Persival's finger trailed down the neck of her bottle, letting her eyes avert back towards the rim. "What's strange? The weather?" Her accident was thick under the ale, though adoring.

"Strange that the infamous Persival is so calm. Damn, I've never seen this place so quiet with you around. Usually I'd have to carry you out of the bar. " His smirk carried off that glint, which would cause her to shake her head and smile along with his dark humor.

"Aye, a real charmer ye' be." She slide a note out for him to grasp. "My Da, ya see." She shake her head again, leaving the hand that once held up her jawline slide to her forehead, soothing a headache.

Marcurio's smile turned bitter as his eyes trailed over the words of a letter from Persivals' mother. Stating: _'My Dearest daughter, Papa didn't make it from the infection of the wounds caused by the damning war. The Stormcloaks stand strong, and his funeral was blessed. What I'm trying to say my little cub, this letter is more of my own last words. Forgive me if I seem to be blunt, but I know you don't need me anymore since you done us all proud. I know I'm not needed in this world anymore, to old to bear more children like you and Singg, to old to remarry, but why would I since your father was the best man a lass can lay eyes on. Persival, find your brother he was the hardest for me to contact, tell him that your father and me loved him dearly. You both were my life, and I'll pass it off. Don't come home my love, you won't find me. Talos' bless you, little cub." _

"I'm so sorry Persival." Marucrio would slide the sheet back into her hands. Her eyes darken to the atmosphere she'd play off around her. Though the expected female response would be to cry, break down in friend's arms. She did no such thing, with a slumped smile, heavy and tried she would only shrug.

"Aye, me too. I'd be lucky to be half the Nord my mother could be. As a suicidal wish she plagues me on finding my brother. Simple? Nay. He plays on the Dragonborn job better than me. He was always the most practical twin. Doing the best, more liberal in actions then I." She held the ale bottle upside down, downing the rest of the liquid she had left. The bottle finding contact with the counter again.

"You can come to me for anything?"

"Anything?" She eyed him muddily.

"You're drunk." Then his lips would fall into a thin line, but memories do betray. As her lips found his, her paled arms wrapped around.

Things tend to happen when you travel together for months, stop seeing each other, then repeat the process. He has laid her to bed before, other times then that recalled night. She was dominating, a real ego on her shoulders. And as sarcastic and short-tempered as this Imperial man would be, he would always let her win.

A twist of tonight as she laid underneath him. She sobered up enough to give him the same eye contact as he gave her. Not a tinge of emotion kissed Marcuros' lips as he glared at the bare woman underneath him. Playfully her fingertips brushed up his neck to only catch the ribbon that held his hair together, the rest came barely touching his shoulders.

She'd give a lulled smile, dazed and fixated aura blue around her hues. A crashing sea color was held so tight in those lovely orbs of human demise. He'd lean in, just to where his bare chest brushed against hers and to where her lips could reach his.

Usually the deed was silent, except for the dragged out gasps she would partake in. Her face pressed against his slender shoulder, his hand pressed securely to the back of her skull; while his other would prop him up. He wouldn't notice as her eyes welled up, she was on the verge of tears herself. It was till her voice broke that silence in the Inn room he rented every night.

"Everyone I love is dead."

He would stop, and question the girl before him. She tried so hard to be that warrior that everyone needed. In reality she was just a farmgirl that lost her Ma and Da, and a brother to hunt for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cicero's Memory**

She was a strange figure, the woman who wore all ebony was now walking about the new home he shared with her. She too, appreciated the dark arts of sheer destruction of the mind and soul. She'd walk mindlessly around the Brotherhood Sanctuary studying the wall that held tongues that not even Cicero could read.

His fingers ran down the crate box that has yet to be opened, then he look back at the girl decorated in her raven armor. He watch the ways how her fingertips would touch the leather of her mask, tapping the leather while her eyes trailed over the wall.

He pulled a sly grin when he noticed that the Imperial man who once accompanied her was nowhere in sight. And the praying of death may have actually struck him, 'If he could be so lucky to hope for.' He took a stroll over behind her, and his motions did not surprise nor jolt her when he tapped her shoulder with a single-gloved index finger.

There was a pleasure in the way she moved to turn around to face him. He had a terrible grin, inclining his head as he pushed his hand out towards her. She'd stare, hesitate, though complied as she took his offer to shake his hand. "I've believed we have met kindly stranger." His voice full of humor and sheer excitement.

"Aye, I believe we have." Her voice wasn't as high-pitched. She rolled on with her charming Nordic accent that was muffled behind the ebony mask. She wasn't the one to edge on a conversation it was more of Ciceros' job. Her eyes kept lingering back towards the wall that was engraved in long ago tongues. "The road I believe. You're the little Jester with the wheel trouble."

"I was! I was!" Cicero would clap, and snicker in her presences. He couldn't tell when she would speak next, for he could never see her lips move behind the leather mask that blocked any sort of identity. Peering closer, her boots would scuff against the soil from underneath her to regain her space. "You helped humble Cicero, but not just me! Oh, no. You also helped our mother? And Mother will never forget."

Tilting her head to the side, her eyes squinted to try to guess out the mentally insane rant, "Mother?" She'd mutter. Her hand's falling to place next to the curves of her hips. "I'm not following. From the road you have spoken of putting her to rest?"

Cicero eyed her, almost loosing that smile. "No? I'm sorry. You must be pulling my leg on this. You- a member of the Brotherhood have no idea of what I, Cicero speak of? Heh. A joke?" And he would laugh, musing and chuckling. Though the kindly stranger never followed along with the joke, and he only realized the hint when he averted his auburn hue back towards her covered face. Her posture stiffed, a serious makeup. "Oh... Surely you understand how Mother, our Holy Matron play's in this? She is-well. A brilliant woman, a Dark elf. She birthed Sithis five children, and then... Hah! Killed them in his name."

"And Sithis himself?" Her voice was more notable, more thicker.

"Hm.. That's like asking what is Darkness. What is life itself? Well, he's the void. We serve him by lining his halls in fresh souls. It is your job now, of course." His arm's crossed, nodding slowly.

"Can you tell me about the void?"

"'Tis where we go- You and I, when we die. Once you take the oath, we can not escape. It's almost romantic. Damning, but Cicero would have nothing changed. I serve what I do- and serving is what Ciceros' best at." Cicero gave that low chuckle.

"Keeping, correct?" Her tone was beginning to pick up. She was opening up more with every question, and he was beginning to hear her slurred laugh and soft gasps underneath the ebony etched mask.

Months would pass, she was rising through her ranks, gaining the mistress's favor. It would make Cicero jealous that the blasted Astrid would steal away his kindly stranger. It was odd, how Astrid would move in to swipe away the nameless member from him. And the stranger would do any bidding that Astrid placed on her head. Just to gain some sort of fashioned love, remorse, comfort of another.

He would begin to wonder did the member with no name love the Mistress in a betraying way? The Nature of love knows' no sex nor bounties, but the mistress was married to the lapdog. She was only fooling the faceless member, just another pawn in a wicked game of Jester. Something Cicero would know best.

"Do you have a name?" Cicero would ask the stranger he met on the road from so long ago. He would only talk to her, for no one else would give the keeper much respect. There was no respect in handling the dead as if a child. "What were you born with kindly Stranger, for Cicero believes you are no mere Stranger anymore; Even strangers own names."

"Names? What are the meanings of owning one humble Keeper? Does it bother you that I do not spill personal information that has been dead long ago. I'm another being that happens to walk in the shadows, as of you and the same with every bloody member here. I do my job, and Sithis rewards those who do. No disrespect my dear keeper." She'd look up from a cracked book, thumbing through riddled pages of fine yellow and dirty page. An old book that she has read and reread for sometime now.

Cicero would frown, kicking through the dirt with his pointed, curly shoe. "Strangers have jokes? Eh? Cicero, too has jokes for Kindly Stranger. The joke would relate to the Strangers apparel. The Mistress does not make you wear our colors, but instead you sport the ebony, always the ebony. Cicero would wonder if the stranger has a face sometimes. No. No, are you a man betraying a woman?"

The stranger would fold down her page of where she left off. Closing the text and securely placing it down in her lap. "I believe I'm a woman. For I was born with said female parts and a female name too. Though, with all due respect and personal freedoms of believing that I- should not reveal who I am, what I look like, nor the very nature of the type of person I was before joining my brothers and sisters in the Brotherhood."

Cicero wanted to choke her, sanity was hanging by the thread. Instead he drove himself closer to her, latching her down to the chair that she sat in. She didn't budge, and her eyes that peeked out from her mask and hood did not shutter in fear of the peeved madman. "And why is that?! You are daft, evil, and sly. Traits we share. You and the man in my head from long ago share!" He'd grip the hood of from her head, but she held his hand down. Hopefully waiting for him to ease his grip.

"It's more out of fear."

"What?"

"What if I died? Eh? Wouldn't you feel more horrible If I was to die, and you knew what type of person I was. Nay, that would be false sadness. For you will have no face to remember to be sad over."

Clearly that wasn't the case, 'tis if his stranger died it would be the color of ebony that would haunt him and not the surrounding aura of void.

**Marcurio's Memory**

Her back was turned from him, face buried deep within a tome, fingers trailing down index of curled letters and tiny dashes. "You know.." Persival rose her head to the tone of the voice behind her, her eyes began to trail from the sides and not over the words anymore.

"Aye?" She kepted her vex front, not yet giving him the pleasure to look her into the face yet. He approached closer letting his fingers trail over her fur that draped off her shoulders.

"Just wanted to say 'thank you' for bringing me to College of Winterholds Arcanaeum. It was a well deserved trip that we both needed." His palms became firm on her shoulders, glaring off over her shoulders to gain a peek over what literature she happened to fancy.

Idly, she held the book closer to her face. She nod and smile to the satisfaction. "Anytime, though it was more out of rumor we came here. Talked about the Male Dragonborn who would sometimes come in here just for some scroll. Elder Scroll? I believe that is what they call it. I've looked into it myself, though I'm pretty sure my brother gains more knowledge over that."

"You have as much privilege to your title as much as Sinng, why do you continue to forget that?" He pause, hoping that she would draw her head from the tome. Waiting for her eyes to linger off the train of words that she clung onto. He's noticed that she hasn't even turned the page yet. "That is..."

"What good is to having all the right answers if you have them all in the wrong times?" She countered any of the conversation. Nothing was in its place. She closed her tome and placed it back on the wooden table from where she found it.

"I'm sorry, Persival. You are not making the least sense." She broke away from his touch, those trailing fingertips. Drawing in close to the open window from the great library. You couldn't see nothing looking out of it except for the galed flurry of snow that would pelt the large window of stain glass.

"No-no. Don't you see. Elder Scroll.. What's the reason to own up to Dragonborn when you blindly walk into things you don't feel right. My brother, he's stronger, more noble when it came to the people's happiness. Myself- It was the selfish reason for fame. You know, my brother begged me to join him on his venture. He had those beautiful, sweet eyes that would cause me to feel disgusting when I told my brother to piss off. He just smiled, knew me well enough." She lower her head, then crane her neck around to notice the Imperial behind her. Smiling sadly to the random burst, or rant. "But, as an old war bear and a suicidal mothers dying wish, they taunt me. They taunt me to look for him, seek for him. Join him battle till the end. I must- find him."

"And as your right for Dragonborn?" Marcurio stepped in closer, his expression never played off anything. There was simply nothing there. "You're confusing me on the matter Persival. Do you- or do you wish to leave and gain whatever from this?"

She'd glare up, innocence's manifested in a lie. "I do, but I wish not to leave. Not on my own you see?"

"Oh?"

She turn around fully, approaching him. Her hand rose, and fell upon the side of his cheek. Gently touching the side as he fell into it. "For if I was alone, it would be hard on me. Knowledge? What good is it if you can't use it to gloat about it? Who would I sure this bloody passion with? Nay, that would be a waste upon the meaning. Knowledge, damning knowledge." She lean in, lightly tapping her lip against his in a gentle peck. Then pulled away from his lips, to only smile a terrible one, "I'd like to share what I know with friends, or a friend."

"A friend?" He'd chuckle lightly, his hands slid down to grip her wrist. "When will it be more?" He'd keep his smile, shaking his head slowly.

"Aye. Until I can manage. Gain a brothers blessing upon a Nord woman bedding an Imperial man. An Imperial man?" She'd snicker, "For if my father knew, damn old bear, he would originally die from a stroke."


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Just Persival and Marcurio's memories for a change. I'll work on the last bit of chapters. This is about Persival's secret job. 'Based on the Morning never come's' Event. Sorta almost done with this story. Hopefully three more chapters? With a twist._

_Persival is singing "Drunken Whaler." An old sailor song, in which I'll explain later why she sings it. _

**Persival's Memory _'Her Job'_**

Daughter Shatter-Shield had her head inclined down, sunk underneath a pew with hands pressed tight together within a muttering prayer that ghosted off into nothing. She kept her eyes shut, feeling the safe aroma of the space in the sanctuary that was dedicated to Talo's. A mighty man-god.

Nilsine kept her patience. Almost holding her breath as her prayer would hopefully help bring honor back to a broken-sided family. Her knuckles have grown white due to stress, her features have gone thin and unattractive to the wondering, sinking eye of man. The very core of her home stunk with thick mead that lingered for days.

Nilsine wanted to cry, but she kepted her mud colored eyes securely closed. Her palms unfolded and were now touching her forehead. Whispering desired comforts to herself, _' Everything will be fine. Everything- will be fine.' _Even her mind choked on those hateful words, and she could feel her eyes begin to water along with a headache in the trade.

The sound was faint, and it echoed through out the empty sanctuary. It was a sound of chains with every foot step, and a lulled sailors tune. The hum was sweet, female, and graced in tone. Though, something was not right. Nilsine's eyes fluttered to the statue of Talo's within the center. There stood a long figure, decorated in ebony and a large raven upon her chest, she stood proudly in front of the description of her God. The mask covered the rest of the human.

"What will we do with a drunken whaler? Early in the morning." The tune was muffled by the leather mask, and Persivals' voice sounded shipwrecked with utter pleasure to see Nilsine in her sight. Nilsine's body was bathed in an aura of charming orange that was radiating off the sanctuary's scattered candles that dripped milk wax.

"Way, hey and up she rises. Way, hey and up she rises. Early in the morning." Persival was stepping closer, with arms firm against her strict posture. Nilsine could feel a personal force to back away from the stranger, bumping her frame against the pew from behind her. The woman would lean against the pew directly in front of Nilcine's. Humming her same tune.

"Who.. are you?" Shatter-Shield daughter's throat would clench up; Her mouth ran dry from sucking in oxygen and holding it in.

"Bless you." Persival leaned in closer, daring in her antics as she gave a small bow to the small, thinner Nilsine.

"Excuse me?" Nilsine's eyes would widen, and Persival could feel her terrible grin pick up from behind her mask; The type of smile that Nilsine could not see with her very eyes. The girl would fold her arms together, coming to sit back down in her spot under Persival's glare.

"Bless you." This stranger to Nilsine would repeat herself. "For- your folly."

"My folly? My folly for what?" Nilsine sunk down deeper in her chair, she was scared.

"Oh you know.. Drunken parents, your beautiful twin's dread-filled feat. Aye, and the lost of a life."

"A lost of a life?" She'd pause, but then draw closer to the woman's eyes. "No.. no. Please no." Persivals' dagger was out with a clash of metal grinding out of her hilt. Holding out her arm's wide, Persival plunge the dagger deep within her chest before Nilsine had the chance to jump up, run out, or scream. She punctured her lungs, which in response caused golden-blood spill from her mouth. The handle of her blade was protruding from the rib cage, and out of shock Nilsine lashed to grip Persival's wrist, while Persival made haste with stronger force for the tip to reach her heart. Her eyes were filled with complete horror, and her future was covered with the color of sheer void. Her remote eyes darted directly into Persival's iceberg ones, gasping. Russet spewed from river-flooded mouth, while the rest bled out on Persival's ebony armor and snow, colored hand.

Nilsine gurgled, and her skin grew silvery over drained and lost life. Growing limp, the girl fell clean into the pew. Persival's blade slid out perfectly as she toppled over against velvet seating. "Stab her in the heart with a drawn out dagger, early in the morning." Persival muttered to a wide-eyed body.

Shifting down, she ghost her fingers to close Nilsine's eyes. "Aye, bless my child. Bless you for such a folly." Seething the ebony blade back into the hilt, she leaned down to only peck the forehead of the girl's with a gentle kiss, "Talo's blessing, of course."

**Marcurio's Memory**

He couldn't see through the darkness. He squinted, and then shifted to one side of the bed that he and Persival shared in an Inn in Windhelm. His hand would draw back the loose strands of his rivet, brown hair. Feeling a faint shift on the opposite side of his bed.

"Where have you been?" He spoke in clear, devouring darkness. He couldn't see her face, though he could smell the thick blood that clung to her hair even though she tried to wash it out before retreating secretly to her rightful spot.

Straying light from the cracks in the wall shadowed her terrible grin. She believed she was sly, had something over his head. "Business love." She tower over his body, and he could feel her long curls dangle and feather against the sides of his sunken cheeks. She kissed him, but he did not kiss back in this circumstance. "You're such an old man." She pulled away, and clasped on her side of the bed.

"It was a question Persival. I asked you a question, I believe." His voice held firm, more firm then normal. To firm for her taste. She'd turn to face him in the darkness that clung to the walls of their room.

"Aye, and I answered." She'd whispered. Her cold fingers ran over his bare arm. Gaining herself into his arms, her head now laid on his own pillow with her forehead touching his. "Asked about Sinng." He didn't return the same affection, but he never turned her away.

"Without me? I know you're lying. What did you do? Who were you with?"

"Ugh, forget it." She pushed away, turning over to her side. Her hair tucked behind her and curled underneath her head. The action caused him to sit up and wanted to crack whatever she was hiding from him.

"Dammit, girl." His hand held firm on her shoulder, "You're scaring me. Damn it all." His voice was beginning to pick up. "For the pass damn week, I've asked you about where you slip off. "It's business- It's Sinng." You're lying. You lie all the fucking time. What is it? Are you whoring yourself out? Eh? I tire the Dragonborn? How rich. I know what your like? Remember that first night you hired me? When you first met? I fucked you, you begged it and-"

He'd regret the outburst, as a palm came fishing against the side of his cheek. The slap echoed, and now she was screaming. He held his hand firm against the mark that stung a deep velvet. "Mind your own damn business. Bloody Imperial. 'Ye run your mouth all the time. Ain't nothing grand about your whole damn race, 'ye only good in gold and running your bloody mouth. Nay, I sleep with no other. Just a damn Imperial. Keep 'dis clear. We are not wed and-"

"Then marry me."

She choke, biting her own tongue when he uttered the remark. "Are you daft?"

"No, marry me. Stop lying. I'll help you find your brother, just retire your silver-tongued ways."

There was a solid knock on the door, with a sudden scream through thick oak. "Silent ye tongues! There are people sleepin' in here." It was the Inn keeper.

"Aye."

"Aye, what?" Marcurio mimicked her tone.

"Aye, I'll marry ye."


End file.
